


Golden Rule

by Kittycattycat



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Injury, Crying, Despair, Frostbite, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, He/They/It Radio!Maxwell rights, I guess? ...If you wanna get technical it’s canon-typical kidnapping, Kidnapping, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, This fic’s tags and ratings and EVERYTHING gonna change hardcore later on, This isn’t tagged as explicit yet bc I don’t wanna be That Guy but it is DEFINITELY gonna get there, not intense or descriptive but it’s there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29690682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittycattycat/pseuds/Kittycattycat
Summary: After a particularly lackluster conversation with an alarm clock radio, the reader finds themself trapped in the world of the Constant. Watch their adventures unfold as they meet a particularly colorful cast of characters, become a makeshift therapist, learn to play marbles, befriend a weird dog, experience existential despair, and have sexy bonding times with just about everyone they meet— not necessarily in that order.Also known as “do others as you would have them do you… wait—“
Kudos: 8





	1. Where the Golden Rule and the Jungle Meet

It’s seven in the morning when you’re awoken by the most wickedly loud noise you’ve ever heard. 

To you, it resembles white snow static on a television, except ten times as boisterous and fifty times more loathsome considering you were in the middle of an incredible dream and a great sleep in general. What is it even coming from? It’s somewhere behind your back, you think, but despite the dull ache in your hip you’re so comfortable lying on this side… 

You grumble in protest and wiggle deeper into your cocoon of semi-warm covers, pleading with the universe itself to make the offensive sound stop on its own, like how a microwave ceases beeping after a while if you just let it sit. 

It does not stop.

“Buh…” finally burnt out on the terrible sound, you turn over to inspect the source of the noise. 

It’s your alarm clock. You stare, idly rubbing the tiny collected crumbles of sleep from your eyes. Bright red numbers flash rapidly at the upper right corner of the screen— the built-in radio is changing stations, going up and down frantically while the time remains perfectly still. 

You’ve owned the clock for nearly a decade. In that decade, you have never even once touched that damn radio. There was never a need. Did you drop it last night or something and forget about it? Hit the radio button trying to smash snooze? 

While you think, the static continues. It’s as if you can nearly hear a radio announcer voice through the distortion— almost impressive considering the station number won’t stop flickering all over the place like it’s having some sort of existential crisis. Still, the sharp popping of white noise renders the voice nigh indecipherable. “It…… ah…. y……. ue… n…”

Too exhausted to properly mull it over, you reach down and pull the plug from its socket, dropping the cord carelessly to the floor and preparing to roll yourself back over. You can sort out the problem with the clock when you properly wake up; you’ve got a phone to check the time, anyways, so it hardly matters. You’ve got nowhere to be— the alarm clock can wait. 

Except, the noise doesn’t stop. In fact, it almost seems to have grown louder. The voice through the static becomes more and more audible, almost seeming relentless in its efforts to be understood, but it’s still so broken up and garbled it might as well be nothing. “Ey… tu…. le…… ag……!”

You groan. You just want to go back to sleep, but the noise is starting to give you a damn migraine. “Just shut up already!” you bemoan to the broken hunk of junk. 

The noise stops in an instant. You blink, very, very slowly. 

“Well, that’s a bit rude, isn’t it, pal?”

A radio drama? You thought those died in like, the fifties or some shit. The voice does sound a bit older, though, and his accent is a bit odd in a way you can’t entirely place. He sounds like a bad actor from a vintage tv commercial without the off-key product jingle playing in the background. Maybe it’s like podcasting, trying to bring the audio format back. You can respect that. “My sincerest apologies, sire.” You give a semi-dramatic bow as best you can while still laying down. You chuckle mildly to yourself at the response. Imagine that, talking to a cheap plastic alarm clock. It must really be early.

“Now that’s more like it,” the voice responds, “although the laughter could be seen as a bit insulting, and honestly, your presentation was sloppy at best. Solid six out of ten.”

A discomforting fuzzy feeling swirls in your head, mind beginning to break through the typical morning post-sleep dimness. “Is this like one of those situations where creeps used to hack baby monitors to scare kids as a prank? ‘Cause I’m a bit old for that, but also wow, that’s fucked up buddy.”

“It’s no trick, I assure you. I’m here to offer a sort of… experience, I suppose. One which cannot be replicated anywhere else.”

“An experience,” you repeat blandly. 

“That’s what I said. The chance to explore a brand new world, away from all the things that trouble you.”

“A new world?”

“Geez, is there an echo or something?” The voice sounds a bit annoyed alongside a bit playful. You don’t bother to bite back a crooked smile. Something feels good about getting underneath this guy’s skin.

“You see,” it proceeds, “I know quite a few things about you. The weariness you feel at every social gathering… the deep-seeded anger building up against all of your friends and family. You’re tired of how they treat you. It’s you against the world, and you’ve considered on multiple occasions… letting the world win.”

The previously warm sheets around your body do nothing to prevent your shiver. Your hands clench tightly around the sheets. Who the hell is this? How do they know so much about you? Why the fuck are they talking through the damn alarm clock radio system? “What in god’s name is wrong with you?”

“And that’s where the problem lies— I’m not wrong, not in the least.” The voice, to its credit, doesn’t sound mocking. It’s almost… sympathetic, in a sense. “Listen, I’m not going to lie to you: I’ve been there. When everything is a disaster, when life hardly feels worth it anymore… but I found a way out. And I can offer it to you, too.”

“Why do you care?” 

“Does it matter?” they dodge, “I’m here to help you. You don’t care for your family, your friends are terrible, you’ve got no partner to speak of, work a crummy job, and have too many bills to pay. Every single one of those things I can fix. Give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“I have no reason to trust you,” you say.

“What could it hurt?” 

You gnaw at your bottom lip. This person… they’re obviously a loon. You’ve got no reason to think any of this will work, and no reason to listen to them. They’re probably just some creep trying to kidnap you or something. 

But… you really don’t have anything going for you. Everything’s gone to shit, and you have no one left to turn to. Whatever stupid idea this radio guy has cooked up, whatever stupid abduction ring or multi-level marketing scam advertiser he’s working for, it can’t be any worse than what you’re dealing with now. At least in a worst-case scenario you might have an interesting enough story to write a book or something. Right now, all you’ve got is an empty apartment and a possible case of paracusia you may need to see a therapist about once this is all over.

“…What should I do?” Your voice is so soft you’re unsure of whether the person on the other end of the radio can hear you.

You sit in silence, nothing but the gentle buzz of radio white noise that fades back in. The voice went silent during your short think-session… maybe they left, maybe the joke ceased being funny and now you’re going to sit alone in your stupid empty bed knowing you just fell for the shittiest, lowest-level prank known to mankind.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. Seriously? What kind of idiot did you have to be to think any magic miracle like that could exist? 

Finally tired of the goddamn noise, you slam your hand down onto the clock’s mute button. A sharp burst of energy jolts up your arm and shrieks throughout your entire body like you’ve snatched a live wire.

Before you understand what’s happening, shadows overtake you.

—————

When you regain consciousness, you don’t even have the energy to groan. It feels like your body got slam-dunked into an empty pool; the light of wherever you are is excessively bright even with your eyes shut, your ears are ringing like all hell, and your head is pounding so hard you’re not entirely sure there isn’t a ravine-sized skull fracture where your forehead ought to be. 

“Say pal, you don’t look so good.”

That voice…

You manage to loll your head over to the opposite side, foggy vision barely managing to focus in on the form of a tall, thin man in a pinstriped suit. He holds something in his hand— a cigar, you realize— and flicks it idly, little pieces of ash falling down and tainting the snow beneath him. 

His expression is too blurry to make out, but you can certainly hear the entertained smirk lying unquestionably within his voice. “You’d better find something to eat before night comes.”

Before you can pull yourself together to respond, his visage disappears into a plume of thick, black smoke.

You exhale through your nose, lying your head back into the snow. The cold seeps into your shoulders, your neck, your scalp. Still, it’s probably best this way. With how your ears are still ringing and body aching something awful, you’re fairly certain you’d just fall back down if you tried to stand at this point. No need making things harder than they have to be. At least the cold of the snow is numbing the soreness in your muscles, even if it is leaving the sharp sting of frostbite across your skin. You sniff plainly, freezing the inside of your nose in the process. Fantastic.

‘Find something to eat,’ he said. Alright. That doesn’t sound too terribly hard, at least. You can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m hoping by posting this I’ll eventually get enough motivation to work on it more... it’s currently my longest fic, sitting comfortably at 17k, but it’s all sporadic and blocky and I need to do more :/ It isn’t a LOT of writing but it’s a ton to my sorry ass and I really don’t want it to go to waste


	2. Inserting Nyctophobia

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks. By your estimation, at least, tallying the sunrises and sunsets as best you could.

Two weeks of freezing your ass off, two weeks of scavenging for any scrap of food, two weeks of scarcely sleeping because every time you closed your eyes there was another horrible noise just within earshot to keep you conscious. Forget resting at night— one snuffed fire and you were as good as dead. You’d found that out quite quickly the first night. ‘I can survive just a minute without a torch’ your ass. Whatever monster lurked in the darkness almost killed you.

You thought you’d at last accomplished something, though. You found a creature— a big one, covered in fur and lumbering around with large, heavy steps— and managed to kill it with an axe you’d found buried in the snow, fashioned from a sharpened stone, a long stick, and some ‘rope’ made out of weaved-together grass clippings and god only knows what else. It pained you to kill it, if you were honest, in a few different ways.

One, because the creature was so enormous and yet so gentle. While attempting to ambush it you had stumbled on a large rock wedged into the earth beneath the snow and taken a hard fall. Instead of it trampling you like you expected, the beast merely wandered over. It’s hot breath warmed your chest as it nudged you with its face— a bit too hard, admittedly, to the point that it almost knocked you over again, but when you’re that large you suppose it’s easy to not realize the extent of your own strength. You instantly felt awful due to your intentions, but you picked your axe back up regardless. In a situation like this, it was the beast or you. 

Two, because after you struck it once, it charged you. Several times. Understandably, but still. If it weren’t for a few well-timed evasions and nearby trees to hide behind, you likely would have been killed. But humans are natural persistence hunters. You ran and hid and attacked in a sort of cycle for quite some time until the poor creature was too exhausted and injured to retaliate any longer. Despite the substantial feeling of sorrow in your chest, you put it out of its misery.

At that point the undertaking was complete. You had meat, food. So much more than just a solitary frozen carrot or a few mushed berries or a fistful of snow just to drive away the tormenting hunger pains. You had enough for the entire rest of the winter, you hoped. You weren’t altogether sure but the typically steady snowfall appeared to be slowing down. Then again, maybe you were just growing acclimated to this terrible kind of climate. Either way, things were looking up. 

Plus, meat aside, killing the creature had given you access to something you’d been desperate for— warmth. It took a not meager investment of your time, not to mention a variety of mistakes with just your shoddy, dull-bladed axe, yet you managed to skin it as best you could with what you had. After some thorough washing to get rid of all the blood and bugs and such, your efforts were rewarded with a massive, thick fur pelt to be used as you pleased.

In the end, you cut the pelt into two uneven sections, the more modest being used as a vest and the larger for a blanket to keep you warm during your sleep. They were both pretty comfortable, actually, if a little itchy at times. 

You were doing well. You thought everything was going fine, and sure, you’d nearly died a few times (and wasn’t that an experience,) but you were improving. You knew you could make it through the winter.

Except things didn’t quite go to plan after that. 

Hounds. Or something akin, anyways. Those freaky little dark creatures with the massive maws and sharpened teeth. You could have sworn there weren’t any in the area you’d settled into, that you’d found a spot shielded from just about everything. The hounds came regardless, uncaring of your expectations. You at the very least were able to hear them coming and flee, the few of them who chased after being slashed apart with your axe, but despite your narrow escape, the campsite you left behind wasn’t as fortunate. By the time you made it back the darkness was all-consuming and your tent was in disarray, scattered and shredded and wrecked. 

Now you’re tasked with wringing out what’s salvageable.

Clutching your torch against the looming shadows, you move towards your icebox first. It’s been tipped over, its miscellaneous remaining contents spilt across the snow. Picking it back up, you see that all the meat from the large furry creature (seriously, you should name these things eventually) is gone. Your shoulders hang pitiably. That was your entire winter’s supply. You don’t know if you remember the herd’s location, and though you’d seen a few rabbits during the first days of your abandonment you doubt they would be wandering around this late in the season…

After managing to tally everything up, you’ve found that you’re left with a single carrot, some partially-frozen berries, and a pile of half-chewed bones collected from the creature with the thick fur and big eyes. Honestly, you’re almost the most relieved to find the bones. The marrow inside is tasty enough, and it makes for some damn good soup broth when you stir it with hot water. And sure, your makeshift crock pot has been a little… leak-prone lately, but that can be fixed, you’re sure. Maybe you could seal it over with some honey.

Except… you still aren’t any good at dealing with the bees. The one and only time you managed to harvest any honey was after a nestful of spiders you’d incensed began fighting with the pesky insects, both groups killing each other off while you reaped the spoils in the background.

It can’t be too hard, though. You can make do with or without the honey. It won’t be pleasant, and you’ll likely go to bed on an empty stomach more than you would want, but living is a possibility. Ice fishing is totally a thing, right? Yeah. You can still do this. You can survive— at least, you think so.

Then you see it.

Inside your tent you find the brunt of the damage you had been braced for outside. The hounds had not only eaten the majority of your food supply, but also had shredded your only blanket. All that remain are scrappy tufts of hide scattered across the ground. Even the tent itself has a large gash torn into its westernmost wall. You’d been looking from the wrong side, so you hadn't seen the damage then. You can’t even use the hound pelts for repair— so spiky they could tear your hands and besides, the spiders had already gotten to all the corpses.

Thick, angry tears well up unbidden in the corners of your eyes. Your teeth are clenched so hard they feel close to shattering. The sharp, broken ends of your nails dig into your single free palm as your head pounds wildly, a pain like no other mounting behind your eyes. “…God dammit!” you howl to absolutely no one, breathing unevenly, “Damn it all to hell!”

It had crossed your mind before that you could die here, after all the work you’d put in to making your circumstances livable. It was inevitable, of course, to think like that— you’d spent days trudging through the snow with nothing to mitigate your achingly empty stomach, the cold nipping at every square inch of your skin through your woefully thin garments. You’d come close to dying, even. More than once. Much as you wish it was your fantastic survival skills, the simple truth was your continued living after setting up the campsite was either a miracle or a hot streak of complete dumb luck.

But miracles can end in a flash, and all luck runs out at some point or another. That point was now, and you knew it. You were going to die here, cold, hungry, and alone, never to wake. Your lifeless body would either be torn apart by the creatures lurking in the dark or buried underneath a fresh influx of snow. Possibly both, in any given order.

You fall to your knees, burying your face in your hands, torch lying haphazardly on the frigid ground. Fuck, how did you let this happen? Why wouldn’t you prepare for every possible contingency? Why didn’t you at least take a backpack full of essentials so the hounds wouldn’t have destroyed everything? You’re an idiot and a dead man walking. If it wasn’t for that stupid thing you call a will to live, you’d go ahead and walk right into the marsh so the tentacles could tear you limb from limb and you could finally call it a day. 

Just when you’re about to throw in the towel and go off yourself, there’s a noise from the nearby woods. Your head jolts up. God, are the hounds back already? You thought you’d slaughtered them all and ran off the rest. A spike of dread runs through you in spite of yourself. Even if they were, what would you do about it? Would it even be so bad to be put out of your misery?

Another noise. Your heart bangs against your rib cage, threatening to burst. You pull your axe from the bag at your side. It’s badly damaged, nearly falling to pieces, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. It’s all you have. 

You nearly believe it to be a figment— a dark hallucination brought on by delirium. It would not surprise you to learn your sanity is low, but from the foggy recollections of previous low-sanity episodes you’re fairly sure you tend typically to not think of your sanity at all, meaning that the sheer acknowledgement of your possible insanity deems you sane. You’ve always hated catch-22s.

Either way, it creeps up closer from the horizon: a darkish figure that only seems to move closer as the moments pass. If it tears you apart, shreds your tendons and drains your blood, so be it. Who are you to stand in its path? You’re just a useless coward who tried making a deal with the devil.

As the figure grows nearer, it’s steps become harsher, charging you with all its strength. This is nothing like anything you’ve seen before. You shiver, shake, fear driven down deep into your bones and clutching at every cell, but you don’t move. There would be no point.

“Hello?!” 

You jerk your body backwards, nearly dropping your torch. Fuck. It speaks? Are your delusions growing? Has the solitude riddled your mind with holes? 

There are no people in this place. You looked for days on end back when you were first brought here. Wandering in all directions, looking and pleading with any god who would listen for there to please, please be someone else, anyone. 

There are no people. You repeat it in your head like a terrible, droning mantra. There are no people. No people. No people. It isn’t real.

A cry comes from the figure. One of pain. It’s been slashed by the darkness. Is the night creature attacking one of its own? 

No people, no people, no people—

It calls out to you in its breaking, reedy voice. “Please, help me! It’s too dark! Stoke the fire, please!”

A man. He is a person. There are people here.

You force your hand into your pocket as fast as you can, cutting your fingers on the sharp finish of a flint piece as you snatch it. Blood trickles from the shallow wound. You disregard it, striking the flint with its accompanying rock and let out a sob as your torch’s fire grows stronger, flaming up and allowing its warmth to brush your nose.

The man finally comes in close enough, his features washed aglow with dying light. Dark circles under his eyes, a thick, messy swath of facial hair adorning his jawline. The buttons on his vest are matched into the entirely wrong holes. The expression on his face is somewhere between excitement and sheer terror. “You’re real!” A slash from the night creature runs red across his left arm, staining into the white shirt fabric, and a gradually unraveling bandage hangs from his ankle on the same side. Hair wild, eyes frantic, a thin trail of blood dripping from his split lip down into the dense hair of his beard— he looks more beast than man. 

Even still, he shudders and falls to the ground near your feet, gasping for breath. You instantly take a knee, careful to keep the torch going, but putting a hand to his shoulder. A sort of gagging exhale escapes his throat.

“I lost my… it… I…” he’s panting. As he curls up, you notice a large puncture wound open on his lower back, angled in from the right. It bleeds sluggishly through the torn layers of his clothing. A hiss comes from between your teeth. The laceration itself doesn’t look too bad, but left untreated there’s a very high possibility for infection.

“We’ll get you some honey poultice.” Your throat hurts, sore from dehydration and disuse, but you find that you can’t stop talking. “There’s— there’s a beehive not too far from here, they’re not too mad most of the time, and in the other direction is a marsh, so as long as I don’t go too deep and avoid the tentacles I can get the reeds too. You’ll be okay.”

His breathing levels out. Whether it’s from exhaustion, relief due to your promises, or the mere sound of your voice, you aren’t sure. 

It doesn’t make any difference. It doesn’t. 

Careful not to leave the man’s now-limp form in the dark, you move back and grab frantically for the scraps of your blanket. It’s so scattered and frayed there’s no salvaging it for any clothing or protection, but kindling is kindling.

On a whim, you grab some of the extra shreds from your former tent, too. You place them over his weeping wound before starting on the fire. It hardly does anything, but it’s the thought. At least it can absorb some of the blood. 

With a superficial hole carved out in the snow by your frigid hands, you dump in the beefalo wool and excess fabric scraps before setting it alight using your torch. The flame quickly catches, rising higher and protecting the both of you. 

A frown crosses your face as you look at the man’s form. Now that the initial adrenaline has run its course, part of you is a bit grumpy at him for so boldly dumping himself into your lap. You don’t know him at all, he’s a complete stranger to you, and now you've used up half of your (admittedly poor quality) remaining resources attempting to protect and heal him. On the other hand… you can’t say you wouldn’t do the same if you were in his shoes, even if it would injure your pride.

You sigh, sitting down in the icy snow and leaning back on your hands to await the morning sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We rollin’ again, boys


End file.
